A delicate hand raises limply to trace circles in the mosquito netting. The man in the moon intrudes, casting a symphony of non-color across the white mesh, cobwebs, and pale skin. Her faint rasp of a breath is an angel’s footfall.

He watches, powerless before the sweltering air, dark heat wringing sweat in briny rivulets from every inch. She does not see him, unless one were to count the iterations and variations in her fever dreams. He is a king, a joker, a dragon, and a cloud of imposing lust. She loves each one no matter how they jab and taunt her.

Gravel crunches, giving way under hardened rubber. A mechanistic growl ambles through the still air. Swaths of yellow light tarnish the moon’s tableau.

Silver white light returns as yellow fades. Silence reclaims the night for a moment.

Sweaty hand gripping the wooden stock of a rifle older than any memory, he swears, “No more blood, no damn more bleeding. Except for them. All of them.”

She sleeps. He braces, ready to turn the night red.